


terrible thing

by inkk, ShadesinBlue



Series: patience [9]
Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue
Summary: ”Look, Izz,” Axl begins, “If you really need me to come pick you up, I will, but—”On the other end of the line, Izzy makes a frustrated sound. “Duff is in trouble,” he says. “I need you.”(a jacket. cruel intentions. a late night call.)





	terrible thing

**Author's Note:**

> ****TRIGGER WARNING: this part contains non-con involving someone who is severely inebriated**. please read the tags before proceeding.  
> that said, thank you for being here! we love you all!

The pounding bass rumbles through the walls of the house, pulsating in the floor beneath Duff’s feet. He leans unsteadily against the bed frame, knees drawn close to his chest as he watches Saul finish off the shared joint. Duff’s mind is pleasantly hazy, fuzzing around the edges as he attempts to focus on the way the overhead light casts Saul in shades of dim yellow. Crawling over, Duff stops beside him, burying his face in Saul’s neck to kiss up the side of his throat in slow, lazy licks. 

“Babe, we got all night for that,” Saul laughs, pushing him away. A second later he draws Duff back in with his other hand, absentmindedly, like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. All of Saul’s concentration is centered around the small silver flask he’s fished out of the side of his scuffed black boots. Duff watches him tilt his head back to drink, studies the up-down motion of his throat, bobbing with his swallows. 

“Don’t fuckin’ hog it all,” he murmurs, reaching for Saul’s wrist. Saul grimaces, pulls away from the mouth of the flask to shoot a scowl Duff’s way.

“You already drank more than half of the damn whiskey I had in my car, McKagan. Leave some for me.”

Duff giggles, kisses the side of Saul’s mouth to taste the lingering alcohol clinging to his lips. “I’m thirsty, though.” He beams, grinning wide when Saul sighs, passing the flask over to him without further argument. Duff downs it, guzzling the burning liquid in seconds, licking his lips once he’s done. A familiar warmth he’s begun to associate with alcohol settles in the pit of his stomach, spreading to his chest in a flush of tingling heat. 

“Damn, baby, slow down,” Saul says. Duff might believe he meant the words if he didn’t catch the gleam in his eye, partially hidden under frizzy curls matted with sweat. Saul runs his fingers along the back of Duff’s neck, smirking when Duff presses further into his hand with a sigh. 

Throwing himself back on the mattress, Duff allows himself to go limp, closing his eyes. He listens to Saul’s breaths mixing with the outside noise, the sound of his own heartbeat sedated in his ears as the minutes tick on. A tickling sensation along the bridge of his nose prompts Duff to peer through half-opened eyes, frowning. Saul hovers over his prone body, grinning as he lightly traces Duff’s cheekbones with his fingers.

“You wanna play Sleeping Beauty, sweetheart, or ya’ wanna party?” Duff tries to think of a witty response, can’t manage to scrounge one up. He lurches into a sitting position, scrubbing at his face as Saul snickers to himself. Barely been twenty minutes and he already needs more liquid courage. 

Duff tips the flask over, frowns at the small drop of vodka dripping out. “Want more,” he says, words already slurring. How is he this far gone already? Might be embarrassing if he wasn’t riding the comfortable high of weed, nicotine, and liquor. 

“Come on then and we’ll find ya’ somethin’.” Saul rises, steadies himself before turning to tug Duff up with him. Duff feels his limbs move in a numb interpretation of rising from the bed. He staggers, falls into Saul’s open arms. Sucking in a breath, he feels the room spin for a second and lets his eyes fall close. When he reopens them, Saul is watching him closely. Duff straightens as best he can, nods in a loose bob of his head meant to reassure that he’s alright. He isn’t passing out this time, not if he can help it.

“Let’s go.” A firm hand on his arm stops Duff. He nearly tips over from the sudden tug but manages to remain standing. “What?” He looks to Saul questioningly. 

Saul runs a hand down the front of Duff’s chest. He cocks his head, curls bouncing. “Take the jacket off, Duffy.”

Duff frowns, crosses his arms. Saul had insisted he wear a tight, cropped mesh shirt to the party. Where Saul had found the shirt Duff doesn’t know but they’d had a near argument about him wearing it, with Duff finally relenting once Saul had gotten a hand around his waist, muttering about all the things he’d do to Duff later if he wore the damn thing. He’d thrown a leather jacket over top, hoping to cover what felt like too much revealed skin he had no desire for random strangers to see. 

Saul smiles, slow and sweet, running a hand through Duff’s hair while the other tugs the jacket off of one shoulder in a motion that’s almost sensual. Duff lets him, swallowing hard as one sleeve falls off, and then the other. 

“Perfect,” Saul murmurs, taking him in, lips curling up. He grabs Duff’s hand and pulls him out of the room. 

Duff swallows, allowing himself to be led down the hall towards the rest of the party. It feels like it takes them ten minutes to walk ten feet back to the living room, but Saul’s hand is firm in his the whole time.

“C’mon, baby,” he hears Saul say, “Come say hi to the guys.”

Duff blinks, and the hall twists. Saul’s voice sounds strange, almost amplified, like it’s the only thing he can focus on. His mouth is dry. Around the corner, he sees the living room, sees lights, sees people.

“My jacket,” Duff suddenly remembers, hands flying up to the hem of his shirt and finding mesh. Because Saul made him wear that damn shirt and now he’s not dressed right, he’s too exposed, the shirt shows everything and where the fuck is his jacket—

“Duff. _Duff_.” His head snaps back up and suddenly Saul is right in front of him, hands on his shoulders. “Don’t space out on me now, baby.”

“Saul, I think I fucked up,” Duff manages breathlessly. “I think ‘m really fucked up.”

“Yeah, of course you are,” Saul laughs, “and whose goddamn fault is that?”

Duff starts to shake his head, but it turns into more of a vague loll. “Don’t know if…”

Saul just grabs him by the arm. Duff can’t see his face when he says, “Whatever, baby. C’mon. Let’s go. The guys wanna meet you.”

“My jacket,” Duff slurs again, but Saul is already pulling him out into the main room.

His vision is halfway swimming, and he stumbles as Saul drags him along. His knee hits a table and he almost goes down, but then he’s being tugged back to standing and directed to a couch.

“Sorry,” Duff says vaguely, unsure if Saul can even hear him. Everything is far away.

“Hey,” Saul says, “C’mon.” He’s sitting down now, looking up at Duff and tugging his hand. When did he sit down?

For a second, Duff just blinks at him. “What?”

Saul releases his hand in favour of his shirt, then pats his lap and smirks. “C’mon.”

Duff blinks, licking his lips and glancing around at the people around them, settling nervously on the unfamiliar guy sitting directly to Saul’s left side. “Here?”

“Yeah, sweetcheeks, c’mon.”

Duff’s head spins a little as he peers down Slash’s smirk, trying in vain to discern familiar brown eyes beneath that mass of hair. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Saul’s smile widens as Duff as good as falls onto him, teeth flashing in the dim light as Duff clumsily clambers into a sitting position with thighs bracketing Saul’s hips, hands gripping the back of the couch to steady himself.

“There you go,” Saul says, hands lifting to trace the bare skin of Duff’s hips.

Duff’s head tips forward as he leans into Saul’s chest. “Wan’ my jacket.”

He only gets a laugh in return. “No way, baby. You look so hot like this.”

A hand under his chin urges his face up, and then Saul’s lips are moving over his own, tasting something like vodka and smoke. Duff squirms a little as he feels Saul’s hands toying with the hem of the shirt and then further, creeping up his ribs.

He pushes himself back. “Don’t,” he hears himself mumble, “Saul, don’t. Not— Not here. We can't—“

“Can’t what?” Slash interrupts him, tone soothing as he leans forward again. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Nobody cares, Duffy. No one’s gonna stop us.”

His hand is at the back of Duff’s neck now, gripping into his hair and dragging him back down for a kiss that quickly devolves into teeth and filthy tongue.

Just when Duff reaches up to push Saul away, the kiss is broken. He gasps in air, tasting the sharp tang of copper in his mouth. Running a tongue over his swollen bottom lip, Duff realizes Saul must have bitten him while they were kissing. He shivers, sliding off Saul’s lap and onto the couch cushion next to him. Leaning his head back, Duff lets his eyes close, feeling something suspiciously close to relief when the couch dips next to him as Saul moves away. 

Duff’s head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. The sounds from the people around him drift through his ears distantly, as if he’s underwater and hearing the party from above. He winces when Saul’s arm tightens around his waist, fingers curling hard into the hollow above his hips. 

“Open up, Duffy,” accompanied by the feeling of cold glass pressed against his lips. Duff’s gaze focuses onto the bleary image of yet another miniature bottle of vodka presented in front of him. He tries to picture drinking more of the stuff and his stomach twists at just the thought. Gagging on the sour acid rising in the back of his throat, Duff attempts to push Saul’s hand away but he misjudges the distance, weakly batting at air.

Saul snickers from somewhere beside him, grabbing Duff’s hair and using it as leverage to pull his head back. The liquor is pouring down his throat all of a sudden, choking him as he tries his best to swallow without puking it back up on the stained carpet. Once he manages to get it down, Saul eases his hand out of Duff’s hair, sliding it to the back of his neck. Duff fiddles with the ends of his shirt, pulling the hem down only for Saul to slide it back up, exposing midriff and hipbone, and—

The sensation of fingernails scratching down his side startles Duff from the blurred edges of his thoughts. His first attempt to look over his shoulder is halted by the threatening roll of his stomach, vision going dark before spotting with stars. He attempts to even out the quick breaths he’s pulling in, clenching and unclenching his fists until his nails are biting into the flesh of his palms. 

Duff finally manages to straighten, head rolling to the side unintentionally. His whole body feels that way; it’s like he’s moving in slow motion, thinking in bursts of words and feeling, desperately trying to keep up with what’s happening around him. Blinking down at the hand on his hip, Duff frowns, trying to place the source of his immediate unease. The thought creeps through to his conscious mind.

That isn’t Saul’s hand.

He watches the hand flex on his skin, settling in a splayed motion. It’s so wrong but Duff can’t seem to figure out why it’s not good, why he feels a tightening in his chest as he meets unfamiliar blue eyes accompanied by smirking lips. 

A tongue, wet and pink, darts out to lick around the edges of those lips. Duff blinks, wonders distantly where Saul is. When did Saul move? He opens his mouth, can’t seem to form the words he wants to say. A small whimper emerges from his throat. The guy Duff doesn’t know grins at the sound, hand dipping just beneath the waistband of Duff’s jeans.

He makes a small shushing sound when Duff pulls back, following his movement easily. “Damn,” and his voice sounds too loud yet incredibly soft. “You weren’t kiddin’ about him, huh?”

“Nope,” comes Saul’s voice from behind his ear. Duff feels relief for a brief moment as Saul’s hands rest against his back. Then, he realizes Saul is pushing him towards the other man, nudging him along gently like he doesn’t want Duff to notice. 

“Saul,” he slurs out, reaching back to grab at Saul, anywhere he can reach, but the touch doesn’t land. 

“Come on, baby,” cooed above him, and Duff focuses back on the stranger grinning down at him as Saul talks into his ear. “Just relax.”

 

+

 

“Hey, uh, Iz?”

Izzy sighs and rolls his eyes at the meek voice, but excuses himself from the group he’d been talking to and turns around to face Steven nonetheless. “Adler,” he remarks archly. “What.”

Steven’s eyes are wide and concerned, flicking around as he fidgets in place. “I— It’s McKagan, man. He’s not good right now, I’m kinda drunk but there are a bunch of guys, and Slash asked me if I wanted to come watch. I said no, but then—”

Izzy feels his expression abruptly shift into a frown, previous conversation forgotten as the words sink in. “What?” he repeats, sharper, “Watch what? Where?”

Steven just gives him a disgruntled, panicky sort of look, shaking his head. “They’re upstairs on the couch. I’m sorry, Iz, I thought—”

“Fuck,” Izzy growls, brushing past him and making a beeline towards the stairs leading up to the main level. He takes them two at a time and nearly bowls some chick over in his urgency, heart sinking as he reaches the landing and hears the laughter emanating from the living room.

_Fuck._

Izzy doesn’t have time to stop and think before he’s marching into the room, mouth set in a hard line, and stops dead in his tracks as he takes in the scene before him.

There’s a cluster of maybe five or six guys hovering by the couch, and at the center of it all, Duff’s bare legs peeking out. He’s splayed out horizontally with Slash sitting between his legs. From what Izzy can see, he’s down to his underwear, the ripped tatters of what may have been a shirt clinging to his shoulders. His cheeks are flushed, eyes most of the way closed, and he doesn’t even look up when Izzy shoulders his way into the group.

“What the fuck is going on here,” he raises his voice, deadly calm. He doesn’t bother phrasing it as a question.

“Oh hey, Isbell!” Slash greets him with a jovial grin. “What’s up?”

Izzy’s jaw tightens, taking in the sight of the possessive hands on Duff’s hips with visible disgust. “What the fuck did you give him?” he demands. Duff’s head turns towards the sound of his voice, lips parting, but his eyes don’t open. He looks dead to the world.

“Nothing,” Slash shrugs easily. “He’s fine, man. We’re just having some fun.” He keeps smiling, keeps touching Duff. The predatory smirk only widens when he rolls his eyes and adds, “He’s my boyfriend, Izzy. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

A few of the other guys laugh, and Izzy shuts them up with a poisonous glower. His jaw clenches against a snapped retort as he holds Slash’s gaze for a long, tense moment. “Get your fucking hands off of him and get him some water,” he finally snarls.

“Or what?” Slash cocks his head, “Is the hipster gonna beat us up?” There’s more laughter from the group, and then Slash meets Izzy’s eyes and pointedly lets go of Duff, holding his hands up in a dramatic gesture of surrender. “Kidding,” he declares facetiously, grinning.

Izzy’s eyes are narrowed, fists clenched. He wants nothing more than to help his friend, to yank Slash away from Duff’s prone body and clobber the smug expression off of his face, but he knows he’s outnumbered. They all do.

“So, you gonna go get that water?” Slash prompts him, syrupy sweet.

 

+

 

Harsh buzzing jolts Axl out of a dead sleep. He runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes until they’ve adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom. His phone jolts from beneath his pillow again, beeping and vibrating in rapid succession. Axl groans, reaching a hand up to grope around on the sheets until he feels the edges of his cellphone. 

Pulling it towards his face, Axl squints at the bright glare from the screen showcasing Izzy’s name and number. What could the fucker possibly want now? The time reads well past two in the morning, which is clearly not the hour to be calling. He debates whether or not he should answer; chances are Izzy’s at that party downtown he’d been blabbing on about, drunk out of his mind and prank-calling Axl with Stevie.

In the space of a minute, Izzy’s call fades from the screen, replaced immediately by another call coming in. Axl curses Izzy, expletives mumbled under his breath as he swipes the accept button, placing the phone against his ear.

“Better be good, asshole,” he mutters into the receiver, eyes already slipping closed. 

“Axl,” said so desperately through the line Axl is sitting upright in bed, alert and aware before he realizes what he’s doing. 

“Yeah? What’s up, Izz?” 

Harsh breathing from the other end, a small pause, and then, “I need you over here. Now.”

Axl frowns, mouth opening to protest. It’s fuckin’ late, he’s exhausted from school, not to mention work, and he’d been stuck cleaning up the house all day. He’s in no mood to come party, or play chauffeur with his drunken friends. Brushing hair out of his face, Axl sighs into the phone, hoping to convey how not in the mood he is for this. 

“Look, Izz,” he begins, “If you really need me to come pick you up, I will, but—”

“Duff is in trouble. I need you.”

Axl’s hand spasms around his phone, knuckles clenching tight on reflex. His entire world narrows down to those two words and the fear laced into Izzy’s voice. “Gimme a second.” He can’t recognize his own voice, or the deadly calm inflection placed on every word. Mechanically, he stands, pulling on a random pair of sweatpants along with his work boots beside the bed. He grabs his keys and wallet, swiping the phone up from its place on his bed. Axl stalks out the front door, letting it slam behind him. His ma hadn’t come home last night anyways so he isn’t afraid of waking anyone up. 

Axl slides into the driver’s side of his truck, keying on the ignition in one quick turn of his wrist. He presses the phone back up to his ear, grateful to hear Izzy’s breathing on the other line. An address pops up in his text notifications from Izzy’s number, and Axl recognizes the location from a few previous parties he’d attended. 

“I’m in the car. Talk.” He feels distantly awful about being so short with Izzy but most of his care is buried beneath an over pouring of concern, fear, anxiety, and welling anger. He swears if Slash did anything, anything at all, he’s going to fucking murder him. 

“Steven came and got me,” Izzy says, and Axl is listening as well as he can while speeding down the empty road, ignoring the speed limit signs. “Told me he saw Duff with Slash, and Slash asked him to watch, and then I went in, and—“

“What the fuck do you mean, watch?” Axl manages to grit the words out, foot pushing further down on the gas pedal, eyes locked on the road ahead. The edges of his vision are tinting red, mind whirling with images of Duff, helpless and at Slash’s mercy.

An inhale like Izzy’s close to hyperventilating which worries Axl more than anything. Izzy is always the calm one, the one unafraid and able to deal with the worst outcomes. If Izzy is this upset, it doesn't speak well towards whatever Duff is involved in. 

“I went to find him,” Izzy’s voice is nearly a whisper, low and grating. “Axe, he was…. there were a group of them and I tried, I swear to God I did but there were so many and Steven was too drunk, so I called you.” 

And now the picture of what’s happening is sharpening into crystal detail. Axl feels his chest clench, stomach flipping. Hands tightening on the wheel, Axl nods as if Izzy can see him, mind clearing enough through his horror and rage to speak his next words. 

“Don’t worry. I’m almost there.”

 

+

 

By the time he pulls up in front of the house, the knot in Axl’s stomach has dissolved completely, melting back into a fathomless, simmering calm. He parks the truck in front of the driveway with the right wheels haphazardly up onto the sidewalk.

Axl ignores the squeal of protesting hinges as he gets out and slams the door shut. He doesn’t bother locking it before marching up to the door. His boots land heavy on the wooden steps, the sound lost under the fuzzy music pounding from inside.

He turns the handle and swings the front door open without knocking, a wall of music hitting him in the chest as he steps inside. The chatter stops immediately. If Axl wasn’t so focused on Duff, he would relish the idiotic looks of surprise on the partygoers’ faces. As it is, he barely looks at them.

“Where is he?” Axl demands. “Where’s Slash?”

Someone fumbles to turn the music down a couple notches. There’s a slight commotion as Izzy pushes his way to the front of the group, drying blood smeared from his nose down to his chin, flecking on his shirt collar. “They’re— the bedroom,” he says, pointing. “Down the hall. It’s locked, I tried t—“

Axl turns away before he can finish his sentence, veins thrumming hot as he stalks down the darkened hall, rattling door knobs until he stops at one that doesn’t yield. He only pauses for a second before backing up, fixing his stance, kicking his leg up and slamming his boot into the door just above the handle. There’s the sound of splintering wood and the door buckles, bowing in the middle, but holds.

From inside, he hears a muffled “What the f—“

Axl growls in frustration. He readies himself and tries a second time, the sole of his boot connecting hard; this time, the door flies open and the room’s occupants startle back as it bangs against the wall, one guy knocked back onto his ass as it hits him.

For a second when he steps inside, no one says anything. Axl’s not sure if it’s better or worse than what he had been imagining - all he sees is a crowd of guys gathered around a bed, a flash of Slash’s hair, and then Duff, naked and splayed out on a bed.

A brawny, football-type motherfucker tries to step in front of Axl as he strides forward, but Axl hardly pays attention as he viciously shoves him aside, zeroing in on Slash alone. “You motherfuckin’ piece of _shit_ ,” he snarls, nose-to-nose and itching to swing. “You get the _fuck_ —”

On the bed beside them, he hears a low groan - Duff’s eyes aren’t even open, but his leg twitches weakly, lips moving. Axl’s attention is diverted as he pulls back from Slash in disgust. He registers the people beginning to gather in the doorframe and then suddenly Izzy is there, grabbing him by the shoulders - “Axl, stop. Just get him out of here, okay? Just take him home.”

His eyes are dark. Serious. Grounding. That same expression Axl has seen all his life: _You can’t fix this one with your fists. It won’t help._

Axl only hesitates briefly before he gives a tight nod and accepts the trenchcoat shoved at him, turning back to the bed. Izzy starts aggressively shooing the useless, wide-eyed bystanders back from the door. Nobody else moves. The other people in the room seem to fade out of Axl’s awareness as he rounds the bed to Duff’s side and reaches out to him, trying not to flinch back at Duff’s weak groan of protest when his hands land on bare, clammy skin.

“It’s okay,” he’s saying, “It’s just me, Duffy. We’re gonna get you home, alright? Everything’s okay.”

It takes him a minute or two in order to maneuver Duff into a sitting position, talking meanlessly all the while. He keeps a hand on Duff’s slouched back as he clumsily drapes the coat over him, tying it closed as best as he can.

Duff’s head lolls forward onto his chest, hair hanging over his face. He’s dead weight, but Axl picks him up anyways, one arm under his knees and the other around his ribs. In any other situation, their difference in size could probably be considered comical.

No one says anything as Axl half-staggers to the door, carefully angling himself so as not to hit Duff’s legs or head. The few people left standing in the hall jump out of the way to let him pass. Against his shoulder, Duff groans low in his throat.

“It’s alright,” Axl hears himself say between huffed breaths, “It’s alright. We’re going home. Everything’s alright.”

 

Duff’s head rolls back, baring his pale neck. Axl grits his teeth when he glimpses patches of red, and what looks distinctively like the bruised edges of a bite mark at the hollow of Duff’s exposed collarbones. He fights off the sudden urge to comfort Duff, let him know he isn’t alone—there’s no time for that now. Axl needs to get him away from this mess, leave this party in the background of his rear view mirror. 

Axl shifts Duff so he’s closer, body heat shared between them. Duff is so damn cold. Distantly, Axl registers Izzy talking to a slurring, concerned Steven tailing them out the front door, peppering Izzy with questions. Axl knows it’s coming from a place of worry, but he just wants everyone to shut up and back off. Duff stirs in his arms, limbs falling limp a second later. 

“S’Duff gonna be okay?” Steven’s wide eyes swing between Izzy and Axl, waiting for reassurance. 

“Yeah, Stevie,” Izzy says but his eyes remained locked on Axl. He wordlessly opens the door of Axl’s truck, moving aside to allow Axl room to maneuver. 

Axl manages to place Duff in the front seat, strapping him in carefully. He tugs the edges of the trench coat down over the bare skin of Duff’s thigh where the material had risen up. Swallowing, Axl begins to step back, stops when Duff’s lips start moving.

“M’jacket,” he’s whispering, over and over until the words blur together. 

Glancing to Izzy, Axl watches understanding dawn on his friends face. “He came in with a leather jacket, denim collar,” Izzy murmurs, rubbing a distraught looking Steven’s shoulders. 

Axl looks back to Duff, at the way his trembling hands flutter at the sleeves of his borrowed trench coat. He clenches his jaw, looks back to his friends.

“I’ll go get it,” he answers, gruff. He can’t ignore Duff asking for it in that pleading tone, shivering in Axl’s passenger seat. “Watch him for me.” Izzy nods, once, and Steven immediately takes up residence at Duff’s side, chattering lowly to him with a shaky smile. 

Axl doesn’t waste time. He stalks back into the hell house, face blank, stare hard towards anyone who meets his eye. As far as he’s concerned, only two people here had gone for help and they’re outside with Duff. The rest of these people can go straight to hell. 

He searches the empty bedrooms first, figuring that’s where most clothing is tossed aside at parties. The first two rooms are a bust but he continues as quickly as he can, movements mechanical. His mind races with thoughts of Duff and exactly what happened but he won’t allow himself to picture it or he’ll become a wreck. He’s got to keep it together, he can fall apart later.

He can’t find the damn thing, is irrationally irritated with himself for failing Duff in even this simple task. He resolves to buy Duff a new one as he heads back to the car, stepping between the huddled groups of party-goers. He’s so close to reaching the front door when he hears Slash’s voice from the room over, loud and obnoxious as ever. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he’s saying. “He was so fuckin’ wasted, won’t remember tomorrow, man. I’m not worried ‘bout it. He needs me,” followed by laughter. Like Duff is just a big joke. Like he hadn’t just been carted out the door half-dead, flinching at Axl’s touch, dressed in a stranger’s clothing because his own was destroyed, or missing. Slash doesn’t fucking care. He’s just pissed his fun got ruined. 

“Yeah, just look out for Bailey, dude. Everyone fuckin’ knows he goes insane whenever anyone looks at the little bitch,” comes from another voice Axl doesn’t know. Fury ignites in his blood, pounding in time with his suddenly deafening heartbeat, tuning out all other noise around him as one thing replays in his head.

_Little bitch._

Axl doesn’t remember the thought process that carries him, trance-like, from the front door to the kitchen. He just knows that Slash is turning to face him, smirk in place, a smear of blood on his white t-shirt and when Axl makes the connection that it’s probably Duff’s, that the fucker made him bleed—

A roar of white noise, Axl’s vision flooded with red. Then, he finds himself on top of Slash and his fists are raining blows, connecting each time with a solid, meaty thud. Blood is spurting out of Slash’s crooked nose, dribbling from the split lip and out of his mouth, mixing with his drool. 

Axl hoists him up bodily, tosses him into the marble counter of the kitchen with a sickening crack. Slash moans in pain, cut off when Axl falls back on top of him, bringing his head down and over Axl’s knee, hard. He crumples to the ground, and hands are finally trying to pull Axl back but they can’t pin him down, he’s still got a hold on Slash’s throat, squeezing as hard as he can. 

Slash is turning vivid shades of red and purple, eyes swollen and bulging as he tries to breathe around Axl’s fist at his neck. Good, let the bastard choke, Axl wants him to after what he did to Duff—

And at the thought of Duff, he lets go, Slash dropping like a rag doll. Axl stares at his still form, glances up at the stunned, fearful faces around him. He turns, walks through the parting crowd. In the end, Slash isn’t worth it. Not when Duff needs him.

 

+

 

Izzy sees them off with a grim nod as Axl pulls away from the house, one arm around Steven’s shoulders - for whose comfort, Axl isn’t sure.

He never ended up retrieving the jacket, and Duff mumbles about it for half the ride home, Axl’s bloody knuckles gripping the steering wheel tighter and tighter with every minute that passes.

He takes the route to his own house halfway without thinking. By the time he realizes where he’s driving, it feels like the only place that makes sense, anyways - where else would he take Duff? Back to his family, where he’ll have no time to collect himself before being punished and berated? A drunk tank down at the two-person Patience Police Department?

_Not fuckin’ likely._

Axl lets out a tense breath as he flicks on the right turn signal. No; he’s taking Duff home. His home. A familiar place, where there are clothes, and food, and a bed, and no parents looming over his shoulder. Where Axl can watch over him for however long he needs.

Duff has mostly stopped talking by now. His shoulder is up against the door, head resting on the window as his arms lie limp at his sides. For the first time he can remember in recent history, Axl makes a conscious effort to drive as gently as he can.

The lights are all off as they pull up to the street outside the house. The porch looks foreboding in the shadows. Axl sits there for a second, just breathing, then turns to Duff.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently touch Duff’s wrist. “C’mon, we’re here. Let’s go.”

Duff jerks at the contact, head snapping up. “Wha—?”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Axl says, reaching to unbuckle Duff’s seatbelt. “It’s just me. We’re just gonna go sleep.”

He draws his hand back and looks up to meet Duff’s eyes, swallowing hard at the blank, fuzzy look he finds there.

“T’gether?” Duff mumbles.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” Axl offers.

“Mm.”

“Let’s get inside, okay? Then you can sleep for a while.”

Duff doesn’t respond. His eyes have slid back closed, breathing steadily from his mouth.

Axl sighs and gets out of the truck, rounding the passenger side door. He tentatively cracks it ajar and pushes his hand through the gap to grip Duff’s shoulder, keeping him from keeling over and falling out while he shoulders it the rest of the way open.

“You need me to carry you?”

No response.

_Fuck._

It takes Axl a solid ten minutes of heavy lifting to get Duff from the truck up to the house, and then another ten to get him to his room - Duff may be skinny, but he’s also tall, and in his current state he’s not in a position to cooperate whatsoever.

Duff only stirs when Axl finally dumps him on the bed, a little more roughly than intended and still only clad in that big jacket.

“Where—” he mumbles, jerking briefly before settling back once more. His eyes flick over to Axl without actually moving his head. “Th’party,” he says. “My jacket, he… Saul.”

Axl’s fingers twitch at the mention of that fucker’s name in Duff’s mouth, a stab of pain from his knuckles streaking sharply up his right arm. “You don’t gotta worry about that right now,” he says, mouth downturned as he moves away to rummage in his dresser for a spare shirt and pants. “I’ll get you some clothes, and you can just rest up here. We can… We can talk it over in the morning.”

He fishes out an oversize Nascar shirt and a pair of dubiously-stained sweats that normally reach down past his feet, then moves back over to the bed. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get you dressed.”

Duff offers yet another noncommittal grunt, one arm flopping uselessly. Axl sighs again. He can’t let Duff wake up wearing the coat and nothing else, but a small part of him still squirms away at the thought of touching him at all while he’s passed out like this.

Axl shoves the thought aside as he starts working the sweatpants over Duff’s feet and up his legs, trying not to jostle him. It’s an awkward affair - by the time Duff is fully dressed, he’s looking rumpled, but slightly more alert as Axl lays him on his side and pulls the covers over him.

“You want some water?” he offers. Duff nods against the pillow. “Okay. I’ll be right back, honey.”

Axl feels a familiar buzz against his thigh as he pads towards the kitchen and retrieves a glass from the cupboard. He lets the tap run until it’s cool before filling it, then pauses beside the sink to fish his phone out of his pocket, heart sinking at the sight of his lockscreen alight with messages:

 **Izzy:** everything’s shut down here. i’m taking care of it. talk to you tomorrow.

 **Tommy:** https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ  
**Tommy:** yo have u seen this??! wtf this is fucked are u okay

 **Unknown Number:** Attachment: .mp4 (1:32)

 **Nikki:** Dude I just heard from Izzy, is your boy OK?

 **Unknown Number:** Link: https://www.instagram.com/

Axl keeps scrolling, and the messages keep coming. He can’t bring himself to open any of it, much less click any of the links.

He knows what they’ll be, anyways.

It’s pointless to try and do damage control right now. All Axl can do is send a single _Thx_ back to Izzy before powering the thing off entirely.

He grabs the cup and makes his way back to Duff, feeling as if there’s an immense weight on his shoulders as he steps back into the room.

He shoves a few books aside to make room for the water on the bedside table. He debates waking Duff up to drink some, then ultimately decides against it.

Duff looks almost peaceful like this - curled up under Axl’s blankets with one hand curled into the pillow, breathing soft and slow with his lips slightly parted.

Axl curls up on his side of the bed, careful to keep a bit of distance between the two of them. After the events of the night, he’ll be damned if he lets Duff wake up alone and momentarily unsure of his surroundings; that being said, he also doesn’t want to push any physical boundaries just yet. 

A lock of sweaty blond hair hangs across Duff’s face and Axl absentmindedly tucks it behind an ear. Duff stirs, hands clenching at Axl’s pillowcase, a tiny whimper escaping his throat. He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, swearing softly under his breath. Lowering his hand to his side, Axl studies Duff, a tight ball of dread gnawing at his insides when his thoughts inevitably drift to the morning. 

People know. Everyone in the fucking school, people from the town over have seen whatever video is circulating out there of Duff, drunk and vulnerable, stripped down on some stranger’s couch. He swallows, concentrates on the shadow Duff’s eyelashes cast over his pale cheek. 

Axl has never been so terrified to face the morning. 

 

+

**Author's Note:**

> come find us on tumblr!  
> nat (ShadesinBlue): @[thebyegonedays](http://thebyegonedays.tumblr.com)  
> pegs (inkk): @[shotgunmessiahs](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com)


End file.
